


The Wolf in Waiting

by Lomonaaeren



Series: July Celebration Fics 2017 [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hit-Wizards, M/M, Mates, Veela Draco Malfoy, Werewolf Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-02 19:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11515569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: Harry has been trying for years to link Draco Malfoy to the assassinations that Harry knows he's committed--and fighting his own attraction at the same time. But Malfoy evades all of Harry's searches for evidence and continues to move in polite society, taunting and teasing Harry. Sooner or later, Harry's patience is going to snap.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my July Celebration fics, based on a prompt that someone originally submitted for Advent: Werewolf Harry chasing Veela Draco as he commits murders.
> 
> Content Notes: Minor character deaths, mentions of gore, manipulation, angst, non-linear timeline

****"What dashing robes you're wearing, Potter."

There were so many annoying things about Draco Malfoy that Harry had given up on ranking them all, but the way he managed to give out chirpy compliments and smile as if he meant them was up there on the list.

Harry nodded, said, "Thank you," and drifted away. Except when he was actually in the throes of hunting down the man who was a Veela--and an assassin no matter what anyone said--Harry preferred to stay away from him.

But Malfoy followed this time, making Harry wish he had ears he could lay flat in human form. "Don't you think this is a grand party?" he asked, making the sleeve of his pale robe swish as he gestured around the huge ballroom, the flashing floating mirrors in the air, the hundreds of candles, the food tables that were longer than the House tables at Hogwarts, the seven hundred guests making stilted conversation. "Don't you long to join in the dancing?"

"If you'd seen me dance lately, you wouldn't joke about that."

"When you dance, things get broken. I've heard that. But I always figured that they were things that deserve to get broken. Like the hearts of people who don't guard them well enough."

Caught, so angry and something else he couldn't breathe, Harry stared at Malfoy. Malfoy swirled his sleeve again. A snatch of his scent came to Harry. Wilder than anything else in the room, it reminded Harry of pure air above mountain passes.

But he was in control, not the wolf inside him. Harry shrugged and answered lightly, "Or the hearts of people who still think I'm some kind of hero. Can't blame them for that. I'm so _dashing,_ like you said."

"I can blame them."

"Oh?" Harry took a sip of the champagne and grimaced. He had to have a glass, to show willing, but it was too sweet for him. Most alcohol was nowadays.

"For thinking they have a chance."

Harry blinked hard, and in that moment Malfoy loomed towards him. His eyes were so bright that it was like looking at moonlit clouds. They beamed, and the magic beating out from him like he was a sun and it was heat reached seeking fingers for Harry. Harry shivered, even though what he wanted was to stretch out near Malfoy and curl up.

"I _know_ they don't," Malfoy continued in a soft, breathless voice, never looking away from Harry's face. "And I hate watching other people waste their time in a foolish, pointless endeavor. Seeking after things they'll never catch. Resisting things they'll never resist. Not--" His voice dropped, and Harry was absolutely certain no one could hear him now. " _Taking_ what they want when it’s available."

Harry reminded himself he wasn't against a wall or table or anything like that. There was space behind him. He could drift into it. He could get away from Malfoy.

And he did. He felt better when there was room between him and the heat of Malfoy's body, and he even managed a twisted smile of his own. "Well, no one can say I'm not putting in the time and effort to chase you."

"Another thing I despise," said Malfoy, without moving.

"What's that?"

"People trying to fit in where they're not welcome. And never will be."

Harry wondered what in the world Malfoy was on about now. It was patently obvious that lots of people liked him, would invite him to parties and galas, and didn't believe a word Harry tried to say about the people he'd killed.

But then Malfoy lifted his eyes and gestured around the room, and looked back at Harry in what was only partly a blatant once-over. Harry felt his breath catch again. He shook his head. "They stand next to me. They touch me. They're perfectly accepting of the fact that I'm a werewolf," he muttered.

"I don't have to listen to such obvious falsehoods and pathetic lies," Malfoy said, and turned his back.

"And I don't have to make excuses to you," Harry snapped, stalking away. This time, Malfoy didn't follow him.

Regardless of whether it was gauche or not, Harry zigzagged straight over to the table that held the butterbeer. The mugs were cool in a way that the wine glasses weren't, and he needed one right now.

He leaned his forehead against the solid side of the drink, sniffed up the foam, and remembered.

*

"Really, madam, Malfoy was at the scene of that crime. I'm certain of it!"

Head Hit Wizard Yolanda Jane gave a weary sigh and took off her glasses to massage her forehead. Harry ignored the twinge of sympathy that made him remember all the times his scar had ached. He _was_ telling the truth, and Yolanda _would_ listen to him.

Hell, they were in the middle of her office, decorated with Orders of Merlin and photographs of all the criminals Yolanda had participated in capturing or helped interrogate once other Hit Wizards had brought them in. Didn't that mean she should listen to any information that would help her prosecute someone who was blatantly breaking the law?

"Hit Wizard Potter--"

"I smelled him," said Harry, and looked Yolanda straight in the eye. She was a tall woman with blonde hair and dark eyes so weary that Harry hated contributing to the weariness, but he had to tell her this. "A werewolf's nose doesn't lie. It can't."

Yolanda was silent for a long moment. "Perhaps you smelled some other Veela."

"I can distinguish individual scents," Harry said, and tried not to snap. "I know he murdered Rabastan Lestrange just like he murdered Rodolphus. And Fenrir Greyback. And Yaxley. And--"

"The problem with admitting your evidence into court," said Yolanda wearily, "is that we can't put it in a Pensieve. It doesn't matter how sensitive your nose is. Others' aren't. We can't smell it when it's in a Pensieve. And we can't smell it even when Mr. Malfoy is standing right beside us."

"Use Veritaserum on me!"

"The Veritaserum that doesn't work on werewolves?"

Harry flushed. He hadn't known that particular truth the first time someone had doubted him about a crime and he volunteered to use the potion. It was the main reason why no one had asked Remus what he knew about Sirius and his apparent betrayal of Harry's mum and dad. Besides the fact that he was obviously evil and couldn't be trusted to tell the truth on his own, of course.

"No," said Yolanda, with a slight shake of her head. "There is no evidence other than what you say to link Mr. Malfoy to these crimes. No magic used matching the signature of his wand. Tight alibis from other people--"

"His family and friends, who would all lie for him! And how can there be a signature when he didn't use wand magic to kill them?" Harry leaned imploringly forwards. "Please, Madam. I know it's true. Give me a little more time to investigate him!"

"There is no time. The Wizengamot doesn't care enough about the crimes, Hit Wizard Potter. All former Death Eaters? No one cares. You only got assigned to the case at first because we had to be seen to be doing something in response to the deaths. But no one cares now. You'll have one more day to wrap up the paperwork, and then you'll be pulled off."

"They were still people," Harry whispered, wanting to speak his piece even though he knew she wouldn't listen. "They should still have been tried and given a chance at justice, not just murdered."

"I agree, Harry," said Yolanda, and came around the desk to put a slightly flinching hand on his arm. "But we don't have enough evidence to pull him in, or even ask him questions. You know that. Give it up and work on cases that you can bring to a successful conclusion."

Harry only shook his head and left. Maybe some of the cases were too old. Fenrir Greyback had died less than a month after he'd bitten Harry, and Harry hadn't been on the case at the time because he was in no shape to deal with it.

_What should I have done? What could make them see that I'm right?_

*

“You know I’m the only one who’ll ever deserve you.”

Harry started and nearly dropped his mug. He hadn’t heard Malfoy come up behind him. He hadn’t smelled him, either, because in a room this hectic and bright and swirling, there was no way to isolate one eddy of scent from another.

“I suppose that’s true,” Harry muttered, and sipped from his mug while he stared at the wall again. “Ever deserve my sarcasm, my biting insults, my—”

“I know there’s nothing wrong with your nose. Smell the desire on me. That’s all you need to do. Your nose doesn’t lie.” Malfoy stepped around a heavy witch who’d been lingering as though she wanted to talk to Harry and leaned towards him. There was a subtle light around his face that meant he was using his Veela powers and they would have a huge audience in seconds.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “You expect me to smell anything _here_?”

“If you come close enough, you’ll scent it on my skin and hair.”

Harry shuddered a little. He could imagine leaning in, burying his nose between Malfoy’s neck and his collarbone, and Malfoy letting him do it, because—

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Harry said harshly, and walked a few more brisk steps towards the entrance of the ballroom. Malfoy promptly came after him. “All I’d have to do is bite down, and then what would you do? Where would you be? Some sort of bizarre winged wolf hybrid?”

“You would never do that.”

The utterly unshakable belief in Malfoy’s words made Harry turn to snarl at him. Malfoy only stood his ground, his eyes widening a little. This time, Harry _could_ smell the arousal that wafted off him.

“You don’t know me. You don’t know the way I itch sometimes when I’m in too big a crowd, how I wish I could stop attending these parties, how—”

“Of _course_ I know that. I know how my skin itches when I’m near my mate. And I only attend these parties to see you. Why not come with me now, and gratify both our wishes?”

Harry’s hand cracked down, and the mug splintered in it. He blinked for a second at the dripping shards, then hissed a sigh and drew his wand. With a swish, the mug and the butterbeer were gone, and Harry aimed his wand at his hand to heal the cut next. It would close soon enough on its own, but werewolf healing wasn’t enough to diminish the pain as fast as a spell would.

“Let me.”

Malfoy moved closer, and he lifted Harry’s wrist before Harry could stop him. Harry stared at his bowed head. Malfoy didn’t act as if he could feel the power behind that stare. He breathed softly across Harry’s wound.

Harry felt as though someone had plucked up a needle and taken to sewing the cut immediately, combined with pouring a Strengthening Potion down his throat. His skin was tingling, his heart was throbbing, and the cut was gone as if it had never been. For a moment, Harry thought he saw a flicker of golden light pouring from Malfoy’s lips across it.

He found his voice where it had gone to hide, and accused Malfoy huskily, “You—cast a spell that enchanted your breath.” It was hard to speak the words when he could smell the arousal on Malfoy, as potent a scent as honeysuckle, but he did it anyway.

“You know that’s not true.” Malfoy sounded infuriatingly calm as he let Harry’s wrist go. “You could smell the magic on me.”

Harry stared at him, and his nostrils flared in spite of himself. Malfoy smiled. It was ethereal and hungry at the same time.

Harry whirled and stalked away. His heart might skitter, his skin might tingle, but Malfoy was still a murderer.

*

Harry blinked his eyes hazily open. He felt as though he was stuck somewhere between clouds, and when he came back to earth, he was going to land with a harsh jolt. But he still remembered a battle, and someone he was supposed to be fighting, and that meant he automatically planted his fists beneath him and struggled to sit up.

“Hush, Potter. Hush. You don’t have to get up yet.” Someone rustled next to him and stood up, leaning over him. Without his glasses, and still drifting lazily somewhere on the far side of pain-relieving potions, Harry had no idea which Healer it was. He summoned up a smile.

“Everyone made it?” he whispered.

“Yes. You were the only one Rabastan Lestrange actually managed to curse.” A long, slim hand smoothed down his side, and the Healer held a flask of some potion that actually smelled nice, like almonds, to his mouth. “Drink. It’ll cushion you against some of the pain you’ll experience. They had to regrow three ribs.” The figure paused. Harry, swallowing some of the potion, raised his eyebrows.

“I was waiting for you to ask why you were the only casualty,” the Healer prompted him.

“Oh. I assumed Lestrange must have Apparated when the others rushed over to tend to me.” Harry couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice.

“More like because you flung yourself in front of Weas—Hit Wizard Weasley and the others. So all Lestrange’s spells hit you.”

“Oh, yeah.” Harry shrugged. “That happens all the time, you know?” He yawned. His voice was already slurring again. The pain-killing potion must have been more powerful than he’d assumed. The floating feeling was back, and he dropped his head onto the pillows and closed his eyes a little. The Healer was stroking his hair for some reason, which was nice, if strange. It wasn’t something Harry had ever had a Healer do.

“Why do you leap in front of the others?” the figure whispered.

“Because I’m a werewolf, and I heal faster,” Harry muttered. God, that hand in his hair felt nice. Most people since Ron and Hermione hadn’t wanted to touch him since he was turned, either. “Mmmm. You have soft hands.”

The Healer seemed to catch his breath, which would have made Harry stiffen if the potion hadn’t relaxed him so much. He hoped he didn’t have to deal with someone who thought of themselves as a Harry Potter groupie who would “save him from himself” by “loving the werewolf” out of him. _Again._

“I’m glad,” the Healer said, which didn’t make much sense, but they didn’t sound like they were about to start lecturing him. “Did you ever think that you might want to stay out of danger more often?”

“Why?” Harry sighed. “I’m a Hit Wizard. That’s what I do. I would be in even more danger if I was an Auror, you know.”

“I don’t like you to be in danger _at all_.”

“For a Healer, you sound like a fan,” Harry muttered drowsily, and he knew he was already drifting away on the waves of the potion.

“I’m someone who has reason not to want you to be in danger that often. And who’s going to catch up to Rabastan Lestrange.”

Harry fell asleep to the sound of the words. It was too late when, long after, he figured out what part of the motivation behind Lestrange’s murder might have been.

*

“I know you figured out I was doing it for you.”

“I never knew why until now,” Harry said, staring into the second mug of butterbeer he’d retrieved from a side table. A lot of people were staring at him openly now, either waiting for him to leave or for him to snap and start ravening, Harry supposed. “Just that—I figured out the Healer was you.”

“I’m glad.”

Harry flinched at the repetition of those long-ago words, and raised his head to stare grimly at Malfoy. Malfoy was standing a respectable distance from him now, but he was raking Harry with that casually possessive glance that made Harry want to bolt out the door.

“You can’t just _kill_ people,” Harry whispered. “You can’t kill them without trials. I was supposed to bring them _in_. I was supposed to bring _all_ the former Death Eaters in. That’s why they assigned me to the case of this mysterious assassin in the first place.”

“Oh, but I’ve killed other people, too.” Malfoy shrugged, a motion that looked as if it continued all the way down his body, like a ripple of river water flowing over stones. “It’s just the former Death Eaters you care about most.”

Harry shook his head. “You killed those particular seven because they threatened me after the war?”

“Yes. And Greyback because he turned you.” Malfoy smiled in a different way. “Though part of that was personal enjoyment, I have to admit. He used to think it was funny to torment me with promises of bites, during the war. I savored the expression on his face as he died.”

Harry willed himself to calm down. He had what he’d longed for, now: a confession from Malfoy. He might not know all the other people he’d killed, the Wizengamot might still distrust his nose and just Harry in general because he was a werewolf, but they wouldn’t doubt his memory of Malfoy’s words.

“I don’t want to be with someone who’s a murderer.”

Malfoy only continued to gaze at him, which meant Harry’s declaration didn’t have the dramatic effect he’d hoped for. “But you know they’ll never accept you.” A circle of Malfoy’s arm indicated the people drifting around the room, the witches in gauzy robes whispering to each other as they looked at Harry, the glitter and gilding and gold. “Why not join with me?”

“Because you’re a murderer.”

“And I suppose all the wizards that _you_ killed in the war and the course of your duties were justifiable?”

“I’ve always followed the rules—”

Malfoy began laughing so hard that more people stared at them. Harry saw a wizard in Auror robes move towards them, and then turn around and shake his head in disgust at someone who worked higher up in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry stared at Malfoy and waited for the laughter to stop.

“Sorry,” Malfoy said, and he straightened up and wiped something off his lips, probably a fleck of champagne. “But—you and the _rules._ Come on, Harry. Do you really expect me to believe that?”

His eyes were so fond and bright and warm that Harry blinked. Only Ron and Hermione had looked at him like that since he was turned. Yolanda respected him, but there wasn’t that level of _trust_ —

“You’ve convinced yourself that I’m your mate, fine.” Harry looked away and tried to lower his voice and sound unconcerned. “But that doesn’t mean I need to accept you. Instead of coming to me like a normal person—”

“Veela,” Malfoy said helpfully.

“ _Whatever_ , you decided to kill people?”

“That’s what a Veela does when someone’s hurt his mate.” Malfoy gave him another glance that seemed to wonder more about what was under Harry’s robes than what was in his head. “Did you know that Veela are immune to being turned into werewolves? So when you bite and scratch in the heat of passion, you don’t have to worry about infecting me.”

Harry shook his head and walked away. He’d had _enough_. His head was hammering, and he was going to crush another mug if he wasn’t careful.

Malfoy followed him. Harry paid no attention to him. All he had to do was get outside and Apparate. It wasn’t like Malfoy would know where he had gone, or could follow him. Then Harry could put the memory safely into a Pensieve, and—

Malfoy only waited until they were in the dark entryway where house-elves had hung the dripping cloaks most of the partygoers had worn. Then he acted.

He slammed Harry against the wall, and Harry snarled automatically and lifted a hand, before he froze. He had learned not to lash out, just in case a slight scratch with his nails happened. But Malfoy drew one of Harry’s fingers into his mouth and sucked.

“See? _I’m_ not afraid.”

And Malfoy’s mouth descended on his, and the first thing he did was scrape his tongue against Harry’s teeth, which were too sharp in the back, and laugh in delight as the taste of blood filled both their mouths.

Harry felt his head spin for another reason. He’d been—fixated on blood and raw meat since he’d been turned. He grabbed Malfoy’s arms and leaned into him, pushing him back even though there was no wall behind him, and Malfoy met him push for push, kiss for kiss, too strong to be broken by Harry’s clutching grip, his heart beating as hot and as fast as the flow of his blood.

Harry turned away finally, gasping. Malfoy caressed his hair the way he had when Harry was in hospital and he was pretending to be a Healer.

“Take the memories to them, Harry,” Malfoy said, his voice low and intimate as a lover’s. “I think you’ll find there are different laws governing the interactions of Veela and their mates than you assume there are. And you might learn something else disappointing, too.”

He ran his fingers one more time down Harry’s chin, leaving a slight glow of golden light behind, and stepped back. It was dark in the room, but of course Harry’s werewolf eyes could see well enough to make out his smile.

“And when you get tired of pandering to them,” Malfoy whispered, “pretending that you’re playing by the _rules_ and that their fear doesn’t bother you, I’ll be waiting.”

Harry hated how long it took him to soothe his panting after Malfoy bowed and disappeared into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry walked slowly into the immense stone room where Yaxley had made his last stand. They wouldn’t have found it at all if Yaxley hadn’t died. Suddenly two old, retired Aurors had owled the Ministry saying that they remembered the location of a manor house where they’d tracked Yaxley during the first war with Voldemort. It must have been under the Fidelius Charm for them to have forgotten it. And Yaxley had been the Secret-Keeper.

Now he wasn’t. Now he wasn’t anything anymore.

Harry knelt down next to Yaxley’s body and stared at him. He’d never faced the man in battle. He’d come to know his face from photographs and newspaper articles and files and wanted posters. But after hearing about the Muggleborns Yaxley had helped to torture and imprison during the second war, he’d wanted to arrest him just as much as he wanted to arrest the Lestranges. And he’d come close to it, with Yaxley firing curses at his back several times but then Apparating before Harry had a chance to get there.

Now Harry couldn’t do that anymore, either.

Harry reached out and slowly traced the bloody edge of the cuts with one finger. Something had _slit_ Yaxley, all up and down his body from his collarbone to his groin. The slashes were made with claws, not a spell, and still as thin as the claws themselves. It would have taken Yaxley a long time to die.

Harry felt a small drop of saliva start to work its way out of his mouth at the smell of the blood, and he took a sharp step back. He was _not_ going to drool at the smell of a dead human being. Keeping his head averted, he moved towards the door, the nearest place where the scent of meat—

 _Flesh, damn it_.

—wasn’t strong enough to overpower all other smells. He began sniffing the stone and the wood, the carpets, the corners of the doorframe that someone might have brushed with a foot, the steps outside, and the corners in each of the rooms.

It didn’t take him long to locate the scent. Veela. Heavy, feathery, meaty—the nearest smell Harry could compare it to was a vulture’s.

And he knew this particular Veela’s scent well, from finding it around other crime scenes.

_They’ll have to listen to me when I tell them about this. They’ll have to. No one else here, and the scent, and Yaxley being killed with claws? Yes, they’ll have to listen._

*

Harry poured himself a glass of the thick, magic-enhanced water that was his preferred drink now and flopped down on his couch. It was in front of the fireplace, and often that fireplace would be humming with calls about new cases, even this time of night.

It didn’t now. Most of the Hit Wizards and Ministry officials who might have called him were busy at the party he’d fled.

Harry held the cool glass of water against his forehead and waited for the flush to calm down. Then he shook his head. “You’re insane for even considering Malfoy’s offer,” he announced to himself. “Just because you haven’t had a lover since you became a werewolf doesn’t mean…”

He let his voice trail off, because he could lie to himself when there were other people (and Veela) around, but it was harder when he was alone.

It wasn’t the offer of sex that tempted him, no matter how well Malfoy could kiss. It was the offer of someone who could _understand_ him, who wouldn’t shun him or stare at him in disapproval for being unable to avoid Greyback’s teeth.

Harry flung the glass of water down his throat, almost satisfied when he choked.

 _It’s understandable that they want to avoid me,_ he told himself as he leaned back and waited for his eyes to stop streaming tears and his throat to stop spasming. _They don’t like werewolves. They’re wary of what I might smell on them. They’re unhappy with the notion that I could infect them. I do look scruffy since I was turned._

_And they like Malfoy because Veela are pretty and charming. Literally. It’s nothing to do with the people. Malfoy isn’t right about them. It’s to do with stereotypes and perceptions of Veela and werewolves._

He told himself that, and he knew it was true. He could feel his body relaxing as he thought about it. Malfoy wasn’t right to condemn the whole of the wizarding world for not catering to Harry. That was the way things were.

Which did nothing about the loneliness.

Harry stood up and stalked into the kitchen. When he felt like this, raw meat was pretty much the only cure. Luckily, there was a butcher he’d found in Muggle London who didn’t ask questions about why he wanted practically whole sheep and pigs.

*

“You don’t need to worry about Rabastan anymore.”

Harry started, and nearly slammed Malfoy back into the wall of the alley he was standing in. When he realized from the feathery smell who was there, he whirled around and did it anyway. Malfoy went with the motion, not resisting, his eyes shining like the moon.

“You don’t have to worry about him,” Malfoy repeated in a croon, and ran his hand up the side of Harry’s neck. “It will be all right.”

Harry shot a quick glance at the flat he was spying on. It remained dark and silent. If his quarry hadn’t taken a Portkey out, then she was still there. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed at Malfoy. “Bothering me at an observation post?”

“I wanted to reassure you right away about Rabastan. That you didn’t need to track him anymore. He’s done.” Malfoy leaned forwards to nuzzle at Harry’s neck, and Harry smelled the blood on his breath.

He leaned in and snarled right next to Malfoy’s ear. Malfoy froze. Satisfied that he’d at least made him _concerned_ , if not frightened, Harry said with as much intensity as he could, “If I find out that you had anything to do with this—”

“You haven’t managed to convince the Ministry to arrest me yet. What makes you think this will be the magic number?”

Harry growled in frustration and released Malfoy. He knew from experience that he would get in a lot more trouble than any other Hit Wizard for throwing a suspect around. “You practically confessed—”

“I said that he wouldn’t bother you anymore. I didn’t say that I had anything to do with it.”

Harry felt a deep quiver in his stomach. That was true. This information wasn’t evidence enough for the Ministry, except the scent, which they wouldn’t trust because it couldn’t be put in a Pensieve. “Go away, Malfoy. God, I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing. Why you want to murder people—”

“I like to make sure that inconvenient people are out of the way.” Malfoy’s eyes were practically slits. “And I want you to know that _some_ people get excited when you growl that way, instead of upset.”

Harry licked his jaws. No, his _mouth_. He was in human form. He wasn’t going to play into whatever game Malfoy wanted him to. He took a step back and deliberately focused on the flat in front of him.

“I have a job to do.”

“I know. And I’ll be here when you want to stop pretending that you’re only a human.”

The fleeting slide of a warm hand on Harry’s back, and he was gone. Harry ended up staring at the flat with an unblinking gaze until morning.

*

Harry closed his eyes as the memory danced in his head and then vanished. That had been similar to what Malfoy had done to him at the party tonight, only then he hadn’t known he was Malfoy’s mate. No, he’d thought Malfoy just wanted to mess around with him the way he would have done in Hogwarts.

And of course putting that incident in a Pensieve hadn’t helped, _either_. The Ministry didn’t care enough about what happened to Death Eaters. Or they didn’t care enough when it was a werewolf bringing in the evidence.

 _Cheer up, Harry,_ he told himself sardonically as he tore another piece of meat off the sheep’s leg he’d taken out of the stasis charm. _It could always be both._

He lowered his head into his hands. He had to stop thinking like this. Ron and Hermione cared about him. The Weasleys cared about him. Fellow Hit Wizards didn’t flee the room when he came in. He was still invited to those Ministry parties that he despised beyond measure—

But he had overheard the whispers from fellow Hit Wizards wondering nervously if he would infect _them_. And the invitations to Ministry parties happened only because of his past fame, he knew. The people who sent them didn’t want to look bad in the eyes of the part of the public that still worshiped the Boy-Who-Lived.

Malfoy had said something about the laws governing Veela and their mates being different from what Harry might think they were.

Although it was nearly one in the morning, the Floo into Harry’s office was always open from his home. He stood and reached for the powder in the bowl on the mantel. He wanted a look at the law books.

*  
_  
_ Harry leaned back from the heavy tome in his hand and wished alcohol still tasted good to him. Yes, there it was, in black and white. He might even have looked at it before now, except that he’d had no idea Malfoy’s murders could have something to do with his mate.

_A Veela is entitled to do anything he wishes to protect his or her mate, provided the people the Veela attacks have previously attacked the mate. He or she will not be arrested or tried unless those attacks happened upon provable innocents._

And all seven of the Death Eaters Harry had hunted and Malfoy had killed had had a shot at him at one time or another. Yaxley had fired those curses at him from behind. Greyback had turned him. Rodolphus had wounded him so badly that he'd ended up in hospital. Rabastan had nearly cut his arm off. And on and on. The injuries they’d given Harry were a matter of public record, and Malfoy could call upon those records if he needed to defend himself.

Malfoy had stalked and killed the people who threatened his mate.

Harry licked his lips and closed his eyes. He didn’t—he didn’t want to feel the way he did right now, to feel the thing welling up inside him.

But he did.

He felt _courted,_ far more than he had known he could. He felt flattered. He could imagine Malfoy ignoring the Death Eaters until he knew Harry was his mate—and that probably hadn’t happened until after Harry’s transformation into a werewolf—and then stalking them, carefully, devotedly, making sure that he planned for times when they were alone.

_He knew all along there was no chance of the Ministry punishing him. But he still didn’t confess outright until now. Why?_

There were two possible answers. One was that Malfoy had taken pity on Harry and wanted to let him play this out without discovering exactly how little the Ministry was going to care about a Veela killing for his mate.

Another was that Malfoy had enjoyed the game. Enjoyed making Harry run in circles and chase after him and growl at him and trail after him at parties.

Harry knew which one he thought was more likely, especially given that Malfoy had tried so hard to prejudice him against the Ministry.

He swallowed and drew his wand. He focused intently on a memory of the dinner he’d had with Ron and Hermione last week, when they let him hold little Rose and only took her away because her screams were piercing to a werewolf’s keen ears, not because they feared letting him near her.

Harry conjured a Patronus with ease, and the silver stag cocked its ears at him after finding out there were no Dementors in the room. Harry licked his lips and met the creature’s eyes.

“Tell Draco Malfoy that I’d like to talk to him,” he said. “Tell him I’m in my office at the Ministry, too.” He didn’t want Malfoy to go to his home, not only because it would waste time but because there were some fairly nasty wards on his home that would cripple anyone trying to enter with a Dark Mark on his arm.

The stag bobbed its head and then turned and raced through the wall. Harry leaned back and settled in to wait.

*

“Hello, Potter.”

Malfoy came through the door looking the most disheveled Harry had ever seen him, his hair matted and sticking up in several places on the sides of his head. Harry hoped that meant he’d rolled out of bed the instant he received Harry’s Patronus.

Harry stood up. He shook his head. “You knew all along that you wouldn’t get prosecuted by the Ministry for those murders, didn’t you?”

“I knew it,” Malfoy said. “Well, I knew it once I knew you were my mate, which was after you were turned into a werewolf and your scent changed.” He let the cloak he must have donned hastily slide to the floor and took a long step towards Harry. “If that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have had any motive to kill them in the first place.”

Harry could feel his nostrils flaring. Malfoy’s scent was stronger than it had been a minute ago. “So it’s my fault.”

“No,” Malfoy said, and his voice was incredibly soft. He stretched out a hand to stroke Harry’s cheek. Harry just stood there and let him, remembering all the while that those hands had sprouted the claws that had killed Yaxley. “It’s circumstance. You were the catalyst. And you know they would probably have been given the Kiss anyway, Harry.” His voice turned low and rumbling. He was reaching across the desk, but Harry had the distinct impression _that_ wouldn’t last very long. “Not for their crimes against you, but for everything they’d done during the war.”

Harry nodded slowly. “But they still should have had a trial first.”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy murmured. “I can’t bring them back to life, but I am sorry. If I’d realized how badly it was hurting you, I would have stopped.”

Harry cocked his head. “And you won’t surrender yourself and ask them to prosecute you anyway.”

“No,” Malfoy said. His eyes were bright and alien and wild. “First of all, they’d decline. Second, shutting me up in Azkaban would mean I was too far away from you.” He slid to the side, so that his hip was leaning against the desk. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m not sorry I hurt _them_.”

Harry nodded slowly. His mouth was full of saliva, and that scent that didn’t smell like a vulture’s anymore. “Fine, Malfoy. But this ends _now_. I don’t care how legal it is for you to attack someone who hurt me. You’re not going to do it again.”

Malfoy nodded in silence, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face. Harry felt a strong, surprisingly heady surge of pleasure. He was the one in control now. He wasn’t uselessly chasing a murderer around anymore, or trying to fit in at the Ministry and knowing he’d never succeed.

_Malfoy was right. I want to change the rules._

He reached out and poised his nails at the side of Malfoy’s cheek. Malfoy immediately breathed in and didn’t let it go. “I want to know if you were lying about Veela being immune to the werewolf infection,” Harry murmured.

“No. I wasn’t. I just—” Malfoy tilted his head to the side, not quite enough to bring himself in contact with Harry’s nails. “God, Harry, _do it._ Touch me. I want it so much.”

Harry smiled and let his nails rest against Malfoy’s jaw.

Malfoy let out a strangled screech that ended up with white feathers curling down the side of his face, and claws forming on his hands. He flung himself at Harry, who caught him easily and wrestled him backwards. Malfoy was inhumanly strong, but so was he.

It was just that Harry hadn’t spent as much time using that strength, not wanting to let it out. Not wanting to remind people that he was a werewolf who could shatter a stone wall or a glass window with a punch.

But Malfoy—Malfoy was open-mouthed and yearning before him, his pupils so wide they’d swallowed up his eyes, and Harry was going to _indulge_ himself. He kissed that wide-open mouth and forced Malfoy onto the desk.

Malfoy went with a complete relaxation and stretching of his arms, and he didn’t object when Harry shredded and ripped his clothing off instead of merely removing it. He never took his eyes from Harry; Harry wasn’t sure he blinked. Harry scratched him a few times, and he only breathed louder.

“Aren’t you _interesting_ ,” Harry said, the words close to a snarl, and Malfoy moaned and stretched his legs open.

It was long enough since Harry had had a lover that he had to pause and think of the spell that would conjure lube. But soon enough, he had it and he was smearing it all over Malfoy’s arse. Malfoy lifted his head and blinked a little dazedly at him.

“You’re still wearing robes.”

“I might be a beast,” Harry said, snapping his teeth near Malfoy’s ear in a way that made Malfoy look as if he’d like to swoon. “But I’m going to be dressed like a man when I take you, Malfoy.”

From the next moan after that, it seemed Malfoy heartily approved. Harry smirked and lined himself up, smearing lube over himself with a careful touch so that he wouldn’t come right then.

The first thrust into Malfoy’s arse was punishingly tight and hot, and _wonderful_. God, Harry had been waiting to do something like this for _years_. He’d watched Malfoy parade around Ministry ballrooms and through the corridors and into lifts and thought about picking him up and driving him through the floor or into the wall. He never had, because that would only prove he was a violent, terrible _animal_.

But Malfoy didn’t care. Malfoy wanted him that way.

And Malfoy was hooking his heels together behind Harry’s legs and hissing and snarling at him now, urging him faster and faster. He wasn’t even using _words_ half the time. Harry’s thrusts had already driven him beyond that.

Harry found himself smiling. He shut his eyes and let his legs and his arse flex and do the talking. There was heat around him and a man desperately crying out beneath him on the table who he couldn’t hurt and couldn’t infect.

Malfoy grabbed his arms. Harry planted his hands on the desk and kept thrusting in and out of Malfoy.

Papers flew everywhere. The gold inkwell that Harry had received as a special award right before Greyback bit him rolled over and off the desk, probably in a way that would dent it on a corner. Drawers banged open and shut with their movement, and Malfoy grabbed for him and missed, Harry’s hips were so covered with thick, swaying cloth.

“I—I needed this,” Malfoy said, and choked on Harry’s tongue as he leaned over and kissed him.

Harry nodded, too worked up at the moment to speak. He fucked Malfoy again, and again, and again, and the desk hit the fireplace hard enough to topple the bowl of Floo powder off the mantel. Malfoy only laughed as green powder dusted his hair.

Harry felt the buildup to his climax long before it happened. He leaned over and kissed Malfoy again, ignoring the way Malfoy’s teeth closed on his tongue. He had sharper ones.

He could take more punishment than a human. He would heal faster. Wasn’t he a goddamn _werewolf?_

The thought made him come.

Through the white sparks and the pounding of his cock and the melting of his spine, Harry had his hand poised to reach out to Malfoy’s cock, but it turned out that was unnecessary. Malfoy cried very loudly and came the instant Harry did. He managed to thoroughly soak the few papers that remained on the desk.

 _Goddamn Veela,_ Harry thought, through the muzzy film in his head. _Can probably feel his mate doing it, and that’s all he needs._

He held himself up easily after the moment passed and both he and Malfoy were gasping messes. A human man would have collapsed. Harry pulled back and raised one eyebrow at Malfoy, considering him.

“If you ever murder someone again,” he said, “you’ll never get to experience _that_ again.”

“You couldn’t have found a more effective threat.”

Malfoy grinned up at him, dazed, and then abruptly became serious, reaching out to trace down the front of his splattered, sweaty robes. “But I’ll never do it again because you told me not to. That’s enough.”

Harry studied him, then nodded shortly. He supposed, if Malfoy was to blame for not telling Harry that he was his mate earlier and the Ministry was to blame for having that stupid law on the books, he was to blame for not investigating it and figuring out that sparing the Death Eaters’ lives would have been as simple as telling Malfoy to stop.

“I was running so hard from what I was,” he muttered, and withdrew himself from Malfoy’s body with a groan. “I never bothered to think about whether you were just tormenting me or not. I thought of course you were.”

“Tormenting you _can_ be fun.” Malfoy winked as he sat up and looked at his own bruises and scratches with perfect complacence. “But I never wanted to do it that way.”

“Very well,” Harry said. He sank down into the chair next to the desk and reached out to stroke Malfoy’s stomach. “And in the meantime, we’re going to discuss what your future role is going to be in the Ministry and at those parties. You can start by serving an _actual_ good cause.”

Malfoy nuzzled at his fingers, his face twisted into a mask of contentment. “I’m not always going to do what you want, all the time,” he muttered. “But keep me happy, keep me satisfied, and it’s going to be that way more often than not.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He should have seen that coming. How many times had he thought over the years that Veela were creatures of pleasure and the short term and nothing else?

Malfoy opened one eye. “And you? Are you going to stop acting all anxious every time someone voices a bad opinion about werewolves? I hate the way they make you cower from what you are.”

Harry gave another slow nod. “Yes. I think—I think I could have been doing more to make things better for werewolves long ago, but I was too busy bathing in denial and assuming things would change if I was just polite enough. They won’t change. So—”

“We’ll make them.”

Malfoy’s voice was almost a trill, almost a song of triumph. Harry stood up and caught his mouth in a hungry bite, and Malfoy went still and singing beneath him, giving him back tongue for tongue and breath for breath.

His life wasn’t _perfect_ , Harry thought, as he got Malfoy into a position to go a second round. But it was a hell of a lot better than it had been earlier this evening.

They couldn’t change the past. They would do their best to change the future.

**The End.**


End file.
